


The Hardest Place

by BrosleCub12



Series: The Hardest Place [1]
Category: Doctor Who
Genre: Alternate Universe, Best Friends, Canonical Character Death (off-screen), Coping Mechanisms, Difficult times, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heart-to-Heart, Helping Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, Protective Doctor, Sharing a House, human-Doctor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 04:01:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5076985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrosleCub12/pseuds/BrosleCub12
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>‘What was it this time? Rude to the staff? Married? Member of UKIP?’ He supposes he had better ask. That’s what friends do and he is Clara’s best friend, after all. Apparently.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hardest Place

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in an insomniac binge one night and, well. Here's the finished result. AU, but with a lot of material lifted from the canon. As per, I don't own Doctor Who.
> 
> I would like to offer a special thankyou to the utterly incomparable rachelindeed for being kind enough to beta-read this for me; I cannot thank her enough. Not only did she give this a proper proof-read and help turn my pitiful prose into something halfway decent, she is also a wonderful person with an abundance of patience and compassion.

*

He’s lounging in front of the television when Clara comes down in what he terms as her dating clobber and ready to go. Again.

‘Well?’ she blocks his view of the television, turns around in a circle in front. ‘What do you think? Will I do?’

It’s the blue dress, this time. The dark blue dress with the ever-so-suggestive slits at the top, completed with the blue jacket – and yet it’s chilly outside. He wonders if he should bring this up. He also wonders if he should ask her why she has waited until now to ask him his opinion on one of her dating outfits.

‘Well?’ she says again; his housemate, the younger and neurotic, spreads her hands, gives him a look, ‘come on, what d’you think?’

He huffs and with a lot of effort, rolls of the sofa and onto his feet in one movement, stands in front of her, looks her over. She looks up at him, meets his eye, holds his gaze. John Smith is no fashionista – the holey jumper _he’s_ wearing is testament to that – but there’s relatively little harm in asking. Relatively little.

‘Very nice,’ is what he says at length, before he suddenly moves away, heads towards the old-fashioned writing desk that he insists on keeping and which is over fifty years old, but still functional. (Like him). ‘Where’s he taking you?’

‘Um… to that Carluccio’s, just off… I thought you’d done all your marking?’ she asks, with a raised eyebrow as he opens the top, brings the desk down on its hinges.

‘Bit overdressed, aren’t you?’ he throws over his shoulder as he reaches inside, ‘Especially for a first date.’ He withdraws the white box that he’s looking for and turns just in time to see Clara blinking at him and then down at her outfit.

‘No,’ is what she says obstinately, ‘no, I’m not. Why?’ she asks, with that telling hint of sudden uncertainty, ‘why, is it a bit…?’

Repetitive. Desperate. Trying too hard. Yes. He huffs at himself – too cruel these days, too cruel by half, especially to those he considers friends, if she wants to wear that dress she has every right to – and readies himself; _friendly look, give her a friendly look, it can’t be that difficult –_ oh, yes, it can. It really can.

‘No,’ he amends, voice softer now. ‘No. I’m sure he’ll love it.’ As if _he_ can be giving out relationship advice anyway. He thinks, _Hell with it_ and offers her the box. ‘Here.’

She blinks at him, blinks at the box, reaches out and takes it, opens it with the attitude of someone expecting a box of tarantulas (as if he’s that Sherlock Holmes bloke off the telly who keeps heads in the fridge; hah, Clara. Clara Clara Clara. He can do _much_ worse than that).

It’s a flower (well, of course he knows it’s a flower, he’s the one who brought it). A fake one, obviously: an especially made blue rose, with darker petals leading into the lighter centre. John Smith knows people and he knows Clara.

‘Call it a good luck charm,’ he says with a shrug; feels old and stupid, in his ratty, holey jumper, eyes worn from a Friday night spent marking and his hair tufted up like the grey lion’s. Or the doddering old fox. He’s not sure anymore. ‘People don’t really give flowers on first dates anymore, bit of a shame.’

‘Also, it’s not traditionally the girl’s best friend who gives the flowers, as opposed to the other half of the couple,’ says Clara, but she’s smiling anyway. She knows why.

‘Oh, well,’ John just shrugs again; his go-to response for anything these days. ‘Semantics.’ He buys time by looking at the clock and then checking his phone. ‘And you don’t want to be late. Taxi’s outside.’

Clara blinks. ‘I didn’t order a – ‘

‘I did,’ he says; reaches for his wallet, which he keeps in the bowl on the lounge table along with their keys and digs out an extra tenner, ‘Here. There’s a match tomorrow of… something. Don’t want to be caught up with all those football hooligans out in the city tonight, looking for time to waste before the big day.’

(Even though the restaurant’s only fifteen minutes away – even though Clara’s taken to walking everywhere, now. Any chance she can get fresh air, she takes it. It’s possible she might just resent him taking this out of her hands).

He raises his eyebrows as she frowns at him; shrugs as he continues to hold out the note. ‘Or you know, you could just take the tenner and spend it on chocolates or lotion or something and pretend otherwise, just to spare my feelings.’

That makes her duck her head with a slight smile (only slight, but it’s a start) and she picks up her handbag, pushing the ten pounds back at him. ‘Cheers. But I’m covered, _Doctor.’_ Her cheeky grin forms around her nickname for him (even if it doesn’t quite reach her eyes) and she turns to go.

‘New cardigan, maybe?’ he throws out as a last resort. ‘Yours is getting a little tattered.’

‘Goodnight, Doctor,’ she throws over her shoulder and he makes a splendidly good show of pretending not to see when she picks up the rose and puts it in her handbag on her way out.

*

Not even an hour and a half later, John is lying across the sofa, watching a documentary on Pompeii and eating Hula-Hoops out of a bowl – picking them off his fingers one by one – when he hears the clatter of keys, the door open.

And slam.

Ah.

Clara doesn’t rush up to her room straight away – instead, she comes into the lounge, lingers in the doorway. Looks at him, looks at the telly.

Then, without a word, she throws her bag down on the other chair – angry, irritable and sinks down next to it, resting her head in both her hands. She looks terribly, terribly tired. No amount of makeup can hide that.

‘So, how was it?’ John asks and already has a cushion at the ready to deflect the one Clara throws at him.

‘Shut up,’ she snaps and he lowers the cushion, peeking over the edge. Clara’s face is the very epitome of unhappiness; mouth turned down, eyes very, very black, her hairdo coming away in wisps. Obvious distress.

He quietly uses the remote control to turn the volume down. ‘What was it this time? Rude to the staff? Married? Member of UKIP?’ He supposes he had better ask. That’s what friends do and he _is_ Clara’s best friend, after all. Apparently.

Clara’s mouth tightens.

‘Shut up.’

He shuts up. There’s a very heavy pause, filled by the television. It’s rather uncomfortable, but then a lot of things like this are, he supposes. He casts another glance Clara’s way; she’s on the edge of her seat, arms tucked around her middle; hasn’t taken off her jacket or kicked off her shoes or anything, is staring very hard at the screen, at the archaeologist expert currently talking about lava. As though she’s trying to forget something.

John decides to just take a chance and make a dash for the car if it all goes badly.

‘You know, I’ve been doing some calculations,’ he comments lightly; it gets Clara’s attention, at any rate and she turns his way, turns away from the telly. ‘And I’ve just been trying to remember how long it’s been since PE’s death…’ he pretends to count on his fingers. ‘Just over a year –isn’t it? Literally, just over a year. Not under,’ he adds. ‘Over. Over’s good.’ He offers a thumbs-up, because it is, he thinks.

‘Shut up!’ Clara is on her feet and he feels only moderate surprise as he tilts his head up to look at her. Ah, so _this_ is how she feels when she’s staring up at him. ‘Just, shut up, Doctor, Mr Smart-Arse of Physics and Being a Total –’ She waves around, looking for the right word, ‘Twatting Bellend!’

He raises an eyebrow; impressive.

‘And for the last time, as you sodding well know, Danny lectured in Maths!’ Clara snaps, before snatching up another cushion and throwing that one at him as well. He moves to the right as it hits him on the arm, huffs in annoyance at the way she’s abusing his upholstery. ‘And I _really_ don’t think you’re qualified to lecture me – how’s Professor Song?’ She practically snarls the words and that. _That_ wipes the smirk right off his face.

Should probably have expected that, in hindsight.

Something shifts in Clara’s face and she looks down, away, before picking up her bag and leaving the room quickly, without looking in his direction. He hears the _thud-thud-thud_ of her heels as she disappears up the stairs.

John sits in the silence of the room for a long time. Then he turns his attention back to the television and turns the volume up extra loud.

*

Forty-seven minutes later – the Pompeii documentary has now ended and he’s watching an Agatha Christie drama instead – Clara comes back down in her pyjamas and dressing-gown, lingers in the lounge door. John, hunched over the bowl, glances up, rolls his eyes and moves over; Clara smiles, a little awkwardly and sits down next to him.

She’s holding the rose between her hands. John furrows his brow in surprise. He would have thought after that last conversation, she would have chucked it in the bin.

‘People really don’t give out flowers anymore,’ Clara comments, as though carrying on a conversation and he reaches for the controls, quietly hits ‘pause.’ (Not sure whether to be impressed or intimidated by the fact that you can do that with your television these days; getting Sky Digital installed was Clara’s idea). ‘You’re right, they don’t. I mean, I don’t want a bouquet, but still; one flower would do. A kind of “Hello, how are you, here’s a token.”’

John would like to take up the ball with a comment on how the world seems to have become rather cynical about romance as a whole (well, good for the world, John thinks) and how these days certain tropes that would have been considered romantic by the older generation just seem downright creepy to the younger one, but then it probably won’t help anything and he’d prefer to just watch the telly, so he just holds out the bowl towards her and it gets him the prize of another, small smile as Clara picks up a handful.

‘Did you go and refill this?’

‘Salt and vinegar, cheese and onion,’ John says. And people say he doesn’t know how to live. He sits for a moment, very aware of Clara nibbling on a Hula Hoop; knows she’s buying herself time. Which is fine with him, they have over another hour of this Christie thing, but he hopes she doesn’t stare at him too long, with those big brown eyes and worried mouth that seems a too unhappy these days, too unhappy by half.

‘Sorry,’ is what she says finally and he deliberately doesn’t look at her, ‘you know, you were right, it wasn’t… that great.’ She huffs, busies herself with sticking Hoops on her fingers. ‘None of them are, these days.’

‘It’s fine,’ John says; he doesn’t elaborate, though and he doesn’t look at her, so Clara’s not quite sure what he means; instead, she huffs and wraps her free, Hoopless arm through his, leans against him for a minute. John tries not to, he really does, but he can’t help but freeze up – it happens whenever she does this; whenever he allows her to do this. It’s still not something he’s used to and they’ve lived together nearly a year now.

‘That’s not David Suchet, is it?’ Clara squints at the screen, at the actors frozen in place, deliberately changing the subject, ‘on the Orient Express. That’s not him, is it?’

‘It’s an older version,’ John explains, eyes fixed on the screen, hoping she won’t realise his fingers are trembling; he’s not really used to being touched these days, not anymore, not by many people – not like when he was younger (a lot younger) and more used to being… huggy…with other people… it’s not the first time, but he still can’t get used to it. ‘1974.’

‘Mind if I watch?’

‘You already are.’

Clara smiles, inspecting the rose. ‘Hit “play,” then.’

He does, and they carry on.

*

‘Ten years,’ he says, a little later, during an advert break; Clara, a little more settled against his side, Hoops circling her fingers like rings, glances up at him, something about the movement a little too quick, a little too sudden.

‘Since you lost your mother,’ John elaborates. Really, maybe it’s just him, but it feels easier to do this with the television in the background – the strange comfort of background noise that has kept him company, the squabble and buzz of the world around him, in the time between River and Clara. And other people too, of course, but Clara is the one who lives with him now, so… ‘That’s right, isn’t it? Ten years, now?’

He’s not sure what to expect, whether she’ll start yelling at him again – _Twatting Bellend,_ really?! – but she just sighs and leans even more heavily against his side. Ah.

‘How did you know?’ she murmurs softly.

‘You’re sadder,’ he says, shifting his chin. Of _course_ he knows the exact date when Clara’s mother died. He _has_ to know. ‘It’s not just P – not just Danny,’ he amends and he thinks he might just hear her chuckle, albeit without humour, ‘You can make it through one year, ten years even and you can still miss someone. And it’s not helping, is it, that last month marked a year since Danny’s accident? Nor that your father’s seen fit to marry himself a pretentious blonde harridan who makes a point of asking you every time you see her why you don’t buy your clothes at Harvey Nichols or why you still haven’t read specific books or poems if you’re an English teacher. Don’t worry, it’s fine, she hates you too. No taste,’ he adds hastily at the look on her face; not shocked, exactly, just resigned, more than anything.

She reaches up with her other hand, squeezes hard, but not punishing, buries her face in his forearm. He feels her nod, can practically sense the way her face contorts as she tries to push back tears, swallow them down. Oh, _Clara._

(He won’t tell her this, but he knows that she’s been crying more – a lot more – since Danny Pink was knocked down. He’s brought tissue-boxes, left one in each room. Made sure there was always tea and something sweet in the fridge. Left several helpline numbers up on the kitchen-board; he’s a Professor, after all. He has a lot of links with support networks).

‘Sorry,’ he adds belatedly.

‘No,’ she shakes her head, moves her face away, sniffles. There’s a small – very small – glimmer in her eyes that doesn’t come from the television. ‘It’s fine, it’s… that’s actually kind of a relief.’ She smiles a little, wipes her nose with her knuckles. ‘Thanks. Yeah, thanks for that. I might… hit you later, but yeah, thanks.’

She leans back against him and he tightens his mouth, opens it a couple of times.

‘Clara, you don’t have to do this to yourself,’ he finally says to the top of her head – smells like apples, the appley Head and Shoulders she uses, it’s all… _appley._ ‘You don’t.’

‘Do you think it’s stupid?’ Clara asks then, looking up at him.

He’s supposed to say no, he realises. That’s what most people would do. But she wants the truth and she always gives him the truth in turn; she always tells him what she thinks, what she believes, when he’s offended her or when he’s hurt her, however unintentional that may be. He owes her the same in kind. Men who want to be good – or try to be – learn from the best, after all.

‘I think that – what it is is just _sad,_ ’ he says finally, honestly. Well, at least it is to him; even to him. Good people – kind people, people like Clara – should not have to lose their mothers so soon when they’re so young. Nor should they have to receive a phone-call one day telling them that part of the life they have managed to make for themselves as a young, fully-functioning adult – in this case, the part filled by a young Maths lecturer with kind eyes and an annoying, cheeky grin – has gone.

The world has never been concerned with fairness, though; John Smith has been around it, spent years travelling it and it’s something he learned a long time ago.

‘You don’t have to keep looking,’ he says then, lifting his mouth slightly away from the top of her head; somehow, the thought of saying the words into her hair is too much, too personal, too… too intimate and he doesn’t want to do that to her, ‘Cause that’s what you’re doing, isn’t it?’ he affirms, when she doesn’t move, ‘you’re… trying to make it all go away. Trying to make yourself move on. You don’t have to make yourself feel anything.’

There’s a very, very long pause. Then, eventually, he feels Clara nod.

‘I really need to get my life together,’ she says, staring straight ahead and John feels an odd pang of triumph, for which he quickly rebukes himself – bad Professor of Physics and Astronomy! – and feels that weight of _feeling_ bad for Clara, Clara who goes out every weekend with a big, hopeful grin and a full purse and who comes back early, sober-eyed and ready for her bed. Who returns home from work in the evenings after school and only ever seems to do what she needs to do – eating, marking, sleeping – rather than any of the things she would usually want to do: riding her motorbike, online shopping, arguing with John about the difference between otters and humans. He can’t remember the last time she baked anything.

(John is worried and has been for some time).

‘I wouldn’t say that,’ he says, because frankly, if it were that easy, Clara would have done it by now. And how do you tell someone that you want them to be happy but that frankly, after what they’ve been through, they can hurt as much as they damn well please, at least under his roof? The rest of the word can take their ‘Chin up love,’ their ‘smile, darn ya, smile,’ and their ‘it could be worse,’ and shove it up their –

Clara coughs and there’s another pause – one of those pauses where he knows Clara is obviously trying to work up to saying something. Everyone seems to have it. (He gets it on occasion, as well).

‘I wanted…’ she swallows, looks down at her hands, ‘I wanted to relax for a bit. I… I just wanted to forget. The first – no, the second guy I went out with, we… I – I went home with him.’

He finds a small half-smile for her; nods to stop her going any further. Because she doesn’t have to, owes no explanations for the way she handles grief. He understands.

‘Think that’s rather normal,’ he says, as kindly as he can, because he thinks he might have done the same thing, once or twice, after River. ‘It’s fine, Clara.’

She finds a smile then, a bigger one, one that says she feels reassured and he feels something like pride, before she takes another Hula Hoop.

‘I couldn’t do it,’ she admits then, looking anywhere but him, ‘I tried, but I just – ‘ She looks up at him, shakes her head, right before smiling nervously; one of those big smiles she gives people, albeit shimmering and shaken. ‘Don’t know why I just told you that.’ She says it as a parody of cheer, visibly sheepish underneath, and he shrugs. He doesn’t mind; not as if he’s going to tell anyone.

(He actually remembers that night; remembers sitting up late in the lounge, in front of some political mockumentary-drama-thing, eyes on the clock. She hadn’t come home until one in the morning, that time, and it had been unusual, just because she had fallen solidly and firmly into the pattern of being back through the door – back to the safety of the house – long before midnight and she had gone straight up to her room with the haste of someone who was running from the scene of a crime).

‘You can do what you like,’ he says, ‘You don’t have to justify it. To me, or to anyone. I just think trying too hard isn’t going to help.’

She’s blinking rapidly now, doing the thing with her eyes, when she looks all vulnerable and confused. He really doesn’t like that look at all and he actually wants to ask her how she does it, but he tampers that down. He’ll ask her at a more convenient point, when he’s not tapping into her psyche to try and help her confront the source of her deep-rooted issues. Over breakfast, maybe.

‘Don’t fill that gap if you don’t want to, Clara.’ He says it softly, treads softly. Thinks about adding that she should probably stop throwing herself into her work as a coping-mechanism, which would be rather hypocritical anyway, wouldn’t it – but gets cut off when she throws her arms around him, kisses his cheek, sends the Hula-Hoops flying.

‘Feeling better?’ he manages, _please get off me,_ and is punished with another kiss. Honestly, it’s bad enough people think that they’re dating, _tee-hee, did you hear about Professor Smith, lives with a woman half his age, get in there,_ as though living together automatically equals sleeping together but then most people are stupid anyway, so…

‘Thanks,’ Clara whispers in his ear, ‘really, thanks.’ She pulls away, finally, still beaming, glances at the mess on the floor, ‘Thankyou.’

For his part, John is slightly frazzled. He had been fully expecting a slap. ‘You’re welcome,’ he manages, even as she pats his knee.

‘I’ll get the dustpan and brush.’

‘You owe me some Hoops,’ he grumbles at her back and she giggles on the way to the kitchen.

*

The next morning they both awaken stupidly early for a Saturday; Clara shuffles down to the kitchen to find him already there and she hums as he makes her a tea, leaves it on the side for her.

‘Cheers.’

‘Good?’ he asks, because the idea of asking _feeling better?_ again for the second time in twelve hours is rather, well, stupid. She nods as they both lean against the counter, taking quiet, reviving sips. It looks like it’ll be a nice day and the morning stretches ahead of them.

‘I was thinking about what you said,’ Clara places her mouth to the rim of her cup, looks thoughtful; John readies himself. ‘And… do you think I need to see a therapist, or… something? Maybe?’

The question moves something inside John; he’s not sure. He’s really not sure. So he takes Clara’s mug from her, sets it down alongside his own, folds his arms.

‘You’re not going mad,’ he tells her, ‘I mean, you drive _me_ mad, there’s a difference.’ He thinks she might chuckle, just a bit and it’s gratifying, encouraging. ‘You’re grieving and you’re coping. _Well,’_ he adds, because it’s true, because Clara is the most… copiest person he knows and he sometimes thinks about telling her _I’ve travelled, I’ve met many people, I’ve said many hellos and goodbyes and it still gives me pause when I think about what you’ve been through._

‘If you want…’ He bites down for a moment, thinks it over, ‘I can help get you a referral. Someone nice. If you want,’ he adds, because he feels that part of grief should not be making people do things they don’t want to.

Clara nods – the kind of hopeful, open-minded _okay, sounds good_ nod, even as John adds, ‘and you can tell me. Wake me up, if you need. Any time. I’m cheap and I make good tea.’ He throws her one of his ‘scary grins,’ as Clara calls them, just for the hell of it and revels in the way it makes her bite back a smile in return.

(He knows about the pacing in the middle of the night. He knows she keeps looking at the number for the Samaritans and thinking about calling it, but is too embarrassed about it, even though people have called for reasons much, much less. He notices the pile of notebooks that she buys for journals – the way she keeps buying new ones every few weeks).

‘Any time,’ he reiterates and Clara gives a small sigh and picks up her tea, takes a long gulp, as he adds, ‘According to Google and the rest of the world wide web, you need a support network – ‘ (Clara almost chokes at that but he carries on regardless) ‘and anyway, let’s face it, I’ve not got much else to do – _NOumph!’_

Clara ignores his protest and soundly hugs him anyway, trapping his arms firmly at his sides.

… He lets her, just for a few seconds. Just a few. Then maybe a few more.

‘I deleted all their numbers,’ Clara adds then, promptly releasing him and stepping back, ‘last night, after our chat. All of them.’

He nods back, once, finds a smile for her. There’s nothing wrong with trying to make a connection with others, but when someone isn’t ready for it and when their heart is taking a little while to heal, well…

‘Shall I… get us some breakfast, then?’ he asks; Clara looks up, immediately interested. ‘Coffee? Chips? Bacon-roll?’

She folds her arms, does her pointy thing with one index finger. ‘You’re buying.’

‘Obviously. Here, you can finish that,’ he adds, leaving his mug on the sideboard and who says he’s not generous? ‘Give me two minutes.’ He pauses, and then puts a very brief hand on her shoulder before he heads out to the hall, pulls his coat from the rack and on over his pyjamas and shoves bare feet into his shoes (people around here think he’s mad anyway and it’ll frighten the other annoying pedestrians off quicker) and heads out the door, to the Greggs down the road.

*

 


End file.
